Screaming. Chaos. Dogs snarling, attacking, though at what signal I cannot tell. The villagers scatter as the warband urge their horses forward, weapons in hand. I’m biting my tongue to stop from crying out. The boy next to me is still staring out the window. Disbelieving. His whole body shakes. His sister is crying. They both saw.
“Follow me.” My voice surprises me by how steady it is as I use Cian’s staff to push myself to my feet, beckoning for the children to cross to the far window. We’re at the edge of the village, and a verdant forest lies only fifty feet away. The druid overestimated the respect these men would have for his position, but I don’t think it was arrogance; druids are clearly revered here. And if King Fiachra’s men were willing to kill him so casually, I doubt they are intending to leave witnesses.
This house won’t be the first they search, but we can’t stay here.
When neither child moves, I tap the boy with the staff. “Tar.” I surprise myself with the hissed word. “Come,” I’m fairly certain, though I immediately second-guess myself. Cian must have used it enough for it to seep into my subconscious.
Thankfully whatever it means is close enough that it draws both children’s focus, and they rush over. I point out the window to the forest, but even as I do, a rider canters into view. Spear drawn. Eyes searching.
“Rotting gods.” I sink from sight and yank the children down as well, putting my fingers to my lips insistently. The boy, who’s perhaps five or six, nods a brave understanding. After a moment the girl, maybe a year older, does the same.
The door opens behind us and I whirl, only breathing again when I recognise the man slipping inside as the children’s father. They rush to him, and he murmurs something comforting to them, still holding his scythe like a weapon.
He spots me. His gaze goes to Cian’s staff. Some mixture of confusion and anger crosses his face, though both almost instantly clear. Whatever he sees, it’s not as exigent as events outside.
He says something to the children and points out the window closest to the forest. I wave to get his attention. Shake my head urgently and beckon him over, showing him the warrior waiting not twenty feet away. Screams continue in the background. Fewer now. More desperate. The first traces of smoke hit my nostrils.
Vek. They’re not searching all the buildings. They’re just burning everything, and letting the people inside come to them.
The father looks at me in desperation. Then at his children. He knows what is coming.
I get his attention. No time to second-guess myself. “They’re after me.” I know he won’t understand, but I do what I can to convey my intent throughgestures. “I’ll let him see me. You wait behind the door.” I point to him, then the corner. “He comes through …”
I make a stabbing motion.
He looks at me. Fear well hidden for his children’s sake, but I see it. He’s no warrior.
He nods.
I don’t wait to ensure he’s understood; the men torching the village can’t be far. I lean out the window, as if I haven’t seen the guard. Far enough that my missing arm is obvious.
A shout; I let my eyes go wide in panic as I appear to notice him and vanish back inside. The thudding of rapid footsteps. A smarter man would have alerted his comrades. Would have set fire to the hut and forced me to come out. But he can see me through the window, against the wall far from the door, and believes me trapped. Probably wants the credit for my death.
He bursts through the door. All muscle and confidence. The children shriek. He pays them no heed, eyes fixed on me. From the shadowed corner, the farmer steps forward and swings his scythe. A solid strike, weight and speed behind it.
But it’s not accurate.
The warrior snarls as he catches some glimmer of iron from the corner of his eye and twists at the last moment; the curved blade catches him on the left arm, scoring a long, deep cut, but not enough to stop him.
The invader twists. Angry, but in control. His spear licks out and swats aside the farmer’s tool as he tries another swing. I charge forward at the same time, even as I know it is too late.
With a casual thrust, the warrior pierces the farmer’s heart.
A scream from the boy as the scythe clatters to the floor, and he skirts the fighter as he runs to his father’s side. The girl is just silent. Staring. Not understanding. The life drains from the man’s eyes as he watches his children. His gaze flickers to me. Pleading.
I take the attacker in his injured shoulder, but I have one arm and only Cian’s staff. He’s skilled enough. He brushes off the attack and slams me around. The butt of his spear cracks me along the side of the head. There are spots across my vision. Then there’s pain. Sharp and bright and enough to elicit a scream from me.
His spear in my side. Deep, slicing through muscle.
I stumble back. Just enough awareness to place myself between him and the children. Smoke is drifting into the house now. I think the roof is on fire.“Run!” I shout it at them, knowing they won’t understand, gesturing frantically to the window behind me even as I ready myself to defend. Perhaps I can keep him at bay long enough for them to reach the forest. Perhaps, at least, my death can be not in vain.
“Cróga, ach gan phointe.” Deep and low. Wry, almost sorrowful. As if he’s asking for forgiveness, though it’s more of an amused apology than a heartfelt one. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it too. I should be running. This isn’t a fight I can win. This isn’t even a fight.
He’s so focused on me, though, that he hasn’t seen the children’s mother slip through the open door. Her green eyes wild. There’s a gash on her bicep. Her entire arm glistens red. She sees her husband and aching pain races across her face.
She picks up the scythe. I circle to the side, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the attacker’s. Drawing his gaze so that his back is to her, and not giving him any hint of her presence.
One of the children—the girl, I think—gives a cry of hope, but the warning comes too late for the warrior.
